


The Experiment / Family Values

by tunteeton



Series: Omega's Lament [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, And It's Oral, John Finally Found the Right Words, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse, Sherlock Has Issues, Surprisingly Little Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-08 23:08:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1138532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tunteeton/pseuds/tunteeton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four days from now on, Sherlock Holmes will stand on a crime scene, over a freshly butchered body of a 34-years-old stay-at-home-mother (originally from Liverpool, owner of two medium-sized dogs and a short-haired tabby cat, happily bonded for once), and find out that he can't concentrate on the case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Experiment / Family Values

Four days from now on, Sherlock Holmes will stand on a crime scene, over a freshly butchered body of a 34-years-old stay-at-home-mother (originally from Liverpool, owner of two medium-sized dogs and a short-haired tabby cat, happily bonded for once), and find out that he can't concentrate on the case.

Four days from now on, he will think back to these hazy hours (days) spent in his bedroom, of each and every time John anchored him back to reality, dragged him back to himself. He will remember the times he fell asleep next to him, only to wake up draped over him, his body unable to relax without literally trapping the alpha to the bed.

He will think of the times he surfaced to find John holding him, or shushing him, or crying silently against his shoulder blades, remember taking control of a body that was aching, sending frantic signals of being both too full and despairingly empty at the same time. He will shudder at the times he remembers himself begging, crawling towards the alpha, spreading himself open for him and not calming down before being filled, being pounded into, being reduced into a needy thing controlled only by hormones and a hateful biology.

He will examine the mutilated body of the woman and see John's face, his stupid, sad, concerned face, his blue eyes turned grey with worry, turned shiny with tears, his mouth at turns devouring him and at turns placating him, asking for forgiveness, as if Sherlock's state could in any way be seen as his fault.

He will muse over John's carefulness with him, over his steadfastness in not hurting him, in not doing anything against his will (as if he had a will during most of those twilight hours). He will remember the terrible want, no, the need, the instinct, to be bitten, to be owned and knotted and unquestionably possessed. He will remember the anger at John for not doing what he should, for not being alpha enough for his needy omega, for cherishing rather than ravaging. Sherlock will remember every tender kiss, every heated blow job, and he will long for that one, early bite, not once repeated during the heat. He will remember scraping at the bite, repeatedly, keeping it open and bleeding, the feeling of sick victory in retrieving his nails bloody from the wound, the constant throbbing of it against his own pulse. He will fight down the urge to tear down his scarf and parade around with the proof of his desirability clear for anyone to observe. He will, thoughtfully, raise his hand to his neck, rub it through the thick material of his clothes, thrill in the pang of pain it sends through his system. It still bleeds. He makes sure of that.

And most of all, while standing on that sorry scene of death, he will remember the one terrible, heart-stopping moment when he woke up and was alone in the room, absolutely alone in the world, and everything hurt, and then stopped, and then he only knew the screaming and the agonising race of his own heart, and his own hands on his hair, tearing and twisting, before he was on the floor, on his face on the floor, curled into a little ball, not even crawling towards the door, because John had gone, had left him, and there was nothing left of him to keep going. There was nothing left to make sound with, and so he stopped screaming and started hyperventilating, and it was at this point that John came flying through the door, because of course he only went to the kitchen, only went to find something for him to drink, to take care of him. Of course.

But the shaking didn't stop, and there were bright lights dancing across his eyes, and he couldn't breathe, not properly or not at all, and he will think he remembers grasping John's ankles and being unable to let go, and sobbing, and saying the most unbelievable things ever, because apparently his brain shut down but his mouth kept on going.

He will remember John taking care never to leave his line of sight again after that little episode. Because at that moment Sherlock had given himself away, and now John knew what he was, and the trust between them was gone.

Sherlock will look at the corpse and think, _this can not continue._

And on his neck, the blood will pulse against that inflicted wound, and the skin will stand red and proud, marking the one place where John once wanted him as badly as Sherlock can't stop needing him constantly.

Four days from now on, Sherlock Holmes will turn around on his heels and walk into London without uttering a word to the police forces present, will hail a cab and disappear.

But before any of that, as always, there's still time for tea.

_“These are the three ideals to strive for: rationality, properness, and control._  
 _These are the three traps to avoid: sentimentality, impulsiveness, and aimlessness.”_  
 _\- Edward Joseph Holmes, 1934_

–

It's English Breakfast tea, and it's currently situated in a little bag inside John's favourite RAMC mug, and it's as cold as January, because John has forgotten all about it in this newest catastrophe involving one Sherlock Holmes and his trust issues. Namely, the ones where he doesn't trust John not to abandon him in a blink of an eye given half a chance.

John had thought the man was deep in sleep, he truly had. For once, Sherlock hadn't been trying to actively smother John into the mattress, and so he had slipped away from the bed, as quietly as he could. Sherlock hadn't stirred, his breathing hadn't changed. John had entertained the idea that he hadn't noticed.

John had, of course, been wrong.

Now, with his arms and ears full of a hysterical omega in the middle of a panic attack, he has ample time to congratulate himself on this splendid misjudgement. He also has to admit to himself that there is more to Sherlock's anxiety than a rape bonding, as horrendous a thought as that in itself is. Sherlock had cared a great deal about that earlier alpha. He had cared, and then he had been abandoned, and then, if Mycroft can be believed, he had spent fourteen years all by his lonesome, thinking about what went wrong.

No wonder the man has troubles fitting in with others. No wonder he has now latched himself to John with such a desperation.

Which, of course, leads to that next unwelcome thought of Sherlock not really wanting him. John is the stand-in for that mysterious arsehole from his friend's past. He is the next best thing. He is the safe option. He is the means to survive this one heat. He should stop thinking about Sherlock as anything else than his eccentric, impossible, unattainable flatmate, because that is all Sherlock is, and wants to be, to John. Realising this makes the continuous urge to bite easier to suppress. It isn't his claim Sherlock is begging for. It isn't his mark he wants on his skin.

It isn't John Watson Sherlock loves.

So he sits on the floor, and he cradles his beautiful heartbreak, and he filters out every single plea for never leaving. It isn't like they are for him, anyway. He's fourteen years late.

–

It's not really a surprise to wake up one evening to find Sherlock missing from the bed, to find him sitting with his laptop in the living room. Clothed in a full suit once again, as cool and unapproachable as ever, he scrolls through the e-mails and the messages on his board, texting with who-knows-whom and generally multitasking like only a Holmes can. The only clue of what has happened between them remains on the skin of his absurdly long neck, on the hollow where the shoulder meets the upwards curl of his throat, and John can hardly glance at that spot without despairing, without positioning himself between Sherlock and the door like the jealous forgotten guard dog that he is.

He stomps down the urge to go to Sherlock and touch him, to kiss him, to revel one more time in the stolen intimacy of the days gone by. But he isn't needed anymore. Sherlock's forehead is wrinkled with concentration, his eyes fly over the pleads for help on the computer screen, his fingers don't cease their tapping for a second. It must be more than just one conversation he's participating in. He doesn't even glance at John, doesn't probably even notice his presence in their shared space. John stares as long as he dares before climbing the stairs to his own shadowed room to find clean clothes and an empty, cold bed. It hurts, this dismissal. There had been moments when he had allowed himself to hope.

He showers, and eats, and calls the clinic to tell that he's still alive, still willing to work when an extra person is needed. They book him for the next morning, and for the day after that as well. It's a relief.

When everything that can be done upstairs is finished he skulks back to the living room. Sherlock hasn't moved, but there are a couple of opened periodicals on the table next to him. Apparently, solving crimes by text and message boards aren't enough, he has to educate himself at the same time. Or is he correcting the articles? John can't read the angry squiggles on the margins, and he doesn't trust himself to go any closer to get a better look.

“So - - dinner?” he asks, nervously, from his fort behind the kitchen table.

“What day is it?”

Such a normal answer, such a cool voice. It's as he thought, then. Everything has gone back to status quo. It could be worse, he muses. He still apparently has a flat to live in and a flatmate to share it with. It's more than he feared after the conversation with Mycroft before this whole mess started. However, the fact that he has to check the calendar on his phone before answering throws him off a bit.

“Er, it's a Wednesday.”

“Only two days? That was quick,” Sherlock states from behind his laptop, all business. The bastard. The damn bastard is wrong.

“No, the next Wednesday.”

“Oh? Oh!” He stops typing for a moment and a brief look of surprise appears on his blue-lit face. A consideration, then: “I guess dinner would be prudent.” And just like that, John the personal maid is dismissed and Sherlock's whole attention shifts back to the computer screen. John retreats to the kitchen to find the cupboards mostly empty. He sighs, gathers his wallet and phone and exits to the street. It's time to do the shopping.

The beta guards are gone from their doorstep. There's no black car waiting for him outside. He's done his part. Now, it's back to playing the old, familiar roles of a genius detective and his blogger.

He returns half an hour later, yells a bit at Sherlock for making a god damn mess during the time he was away – not even an hour, Sherlock, how did you have time for all of this, and what is _this_ , and what's it doing on the _kitchen table?_ – and Sherlock ignores him in favour of rapid-fire typing and insulting Lestrade on the phone at the same time. It's like he tries to catch up with the lost days on one evening only, and by the speed he's proceeding, he's probably succeeding as well. Before another hour has passed, he's rushed down the stairs and is out of their front door, the dinner untouched and forgotten on the table.

_“A Holmes is a pillar of society, no matter his chosen career._  
 _Therefore, a Holmes should always remember the family values._  
 _Be proper._  
 _Be rational._  
 _Be above your flesh._  
 _The mind reigns over the body._  
 _The work comes first.”_  
 _\- Wilhelm Holmes, 1920_

–

Noticing John's dampened mood doesn't exactly require the skills of a consulting detective, which is why Sherlock can't understand why it takes him nearly four hours of heatless life to catch on to it. Sure, he might have been in a bit of a hurry, but the work has always come first. John should know that by now. But the alpha is practically hiding in the kitchen, sighing melodramatically and wreaking total havoc on Sherlock's concentration. He lets out a small sigh of relief when John disappears to the shops, but even that respite is short-lived. Because when John leaves the flat, Sherlock's skin goes cold, his pulse gets rapid and the issue of Biannual Biochemistry he's perusing could as well be written in Cantonese for all the good it does to him.

This is completely unacceptable.

The table had it coming.

But when John stomps back in to yell at him, Sherlock finds that the tension he didn't know had gathered to his shoulders abates. Everything clicks to a place. Sherlock dutifully ignores the threats of cleaning John throws his way and solves yet another dull case for Lestrade and his worthless goons. But the fact that John is unhappy with him doesn't leave his system. It's like an itch where he can't reach it, constantly present and irritating.

He generally doesn't care about explaining himself, but now it feels important to tell John what the sodium peroxide is doing on the table – the murderer was clearly a scuba-diver – and it's not like the stuff is flammable or anything. There hasn't been a fire in the flat in months, why can't John calm down? It's just like flour. Yellow, corrosive flour. There's no reason John should be in such a strop over such a small thing. There's even less reason why his moods should matter to Sherlock.

So when his phone chimes with yet another message from Lestrade – the suspect has been taken into custody – he jumps up and grabs his coat. He's been inside for far too long, it's high time to visit NSY in person. Who knows, there might be some new construction sites he should know about, or roads in the making, or something. Best to go and check.

“Where're you going?”

He's down the steps before he needs to come up with an answer, and when he gets back, late at night, he's none the wiser. The flat is dark, John's room closed. He's sleeping, and Sherlock paces through the night, listening to the forgotten echoes of the walls, of the recent days.

How to apologise? He remembers – thinks that he remembers – that he did, once, already. But that particular memory is laden with the unspeakable things, John in his bed, John close to his skin, John holding him. It's not safe, dwelling on those moments. Nothing confessed during that time was the truth. He had drugged John, again, and they had discussed this in the train after Henry Knight, and he had agreed, _agreed_ that he wouldn't do that. But he had, of course he had broken that promise, and he had used his own traitorous body to do that, and now John was uneasy beyond belief, and it all boiled down to Sherlock's lack of self-control.

Because he saw them, earlier, John's brief gazes and thoughtful steps towards Sherlock's bedroom door, and the frantic cleaning operation he's undertaken while Sherlock was away. The surfaces in the kitchen and the living room are scrubbed to a shine, the windows left ajar. John wants to destroy all the evidence of what has happened. Sherlock has no doubt his sheets are gone, already put through the washing machine. John wants to forget, to go on. Sherlock can do that for him. He can, no matter what his stupid omega brain is telling him.

He opens the bedroom door, so sure of what will wait for him on the other side that the truth takes a moment to come through.

John hasn't been here. The bed is tousled, the smell of their coupling low and heavy in the air. Even John's clothes are exactly where he dropped them, and the hateful cuffs still dangle from the bedpost. Sherlock stares, terrified, and then he's backpedalling, throwing the door closed, opening the next one, and he's just in time on the bathroom floor, panting against the tiles, his stomach giving up the little sustenance he's eaten today.

He's _pathetic._

He spends the last hours before dawn on the sofa. That door can remain closed. As far as he's concerned, it can remain closed forever. He's not sleeping on that bed, ever again.

He's _beyond_ pathetic.

–

And so it goes, and every morning he thinks that today will be easier, today things will go back to normal, and every evening he knows he was wrong. John spends the days working, and afterwards he's either reading, filling the flat with half-started phrases morphing into loud silences, or out with his mates. Sherlock solves crimes with a vigour that surprises even himself. He tears through every case Lestrade as much as mentions, until he's standing above the body of the dead woman, owner of the two medium-sized dogs and the tabby cat.

And it shouldn't matter to him that her spiky hair is the exact same shade as John's, desert sand blonde, or that she was an omega, just another rape gone wrong, or that she's leaving behind a grieving alpha mate, one who genuinely cared about her.

None of that should matter to Sherlock at all.

John will never say a word, he understands that now. And he himself, he has gathered his courage so many times, only to find it crumbling on the last minute. But the dead woman in her battered body gives him an idea, parameters for an experiment.

Lestrade can solve this one on his own. It's past the time to wean him from continuous hand holding anyway.

Sherlock has a friendship to save, and he has wasted enough time already.

The game is on.

–

The most difficult part of the experiment is the first step. He's standing behind the door, that door, his fingers on the handle and his stomach in a freefall.

_Stupid sentimental moron._

There are no monsters in his bedroom, nothing to be afraid of. Sherlock has faced actual monsters during his career, quite happily and without a shiver of doubt he'll be emerging victorious. There isn't a single logical reason to fear a damn door.

It could as well be a gateway to Hell.

_Useless piece of omega meat._

He thinks of Mycroft's condescending alpha superiority and John's eyes, not sure whether they should be sad or terrified. He thinks of himself when it's bad, when he's ready to get on his knees even for his own _brother_ , when he has _done_ that. When he has schemed to be allowed to do just that.

The evidence is in there. He only has to open this stupid piece of plywood first.

_Disgusting untrustworthy disappointment of a Holmes._

Maybe there's another way? He just hasn't tried hard enough yet.

But there really isn't. Either Sherlock does this or the silence will eat them alive. John will suffer him for a while and then leave. He will lose John. He's already losing John. 

Lose John, or open the door and face the truth?

_Spineless mess._

 

_“It goes without saying that producing alpha offspring is an advantage._  
 _However, one should not despair of having a beta child – many a leader has been of a beta persuasion, and with a correct upbringing and schooling a beta youth can excel._  
 _Of course, the blessed freedom from the demands of the Symmetry opens paths usually closed to the alphas._

_To those unfortunate enough to find their child an omega I offer my deepest condolences._  
 _An omega is a fragile thing of needs and irrational flesh._  
 _It has its value as a tool in diplomacy, but the hardships in bringing one up can't be overstressed._  
 _An omega needs a strict hand and a patient parent, and even then success can't be taken for granted.”_  
 _\- Viola Henrietta Holmes, 1974_

–

The sullen days aren't easy for John, either. Most of the time when he's at home, Sherlock is out. When they are at 221B at the same time, the rooms are filled with awkward glances and almost-colliding limbs. They don't touch, don't look at each other, and still they seem to keep on moving to each other's way, clumsily circling the kitchen table, the chairs by the fireplace, the bookcases. It's ridiculous.

The first night, Sherlock is out. John eats supper, and walks downstairs to watch telly with Mrs Hudson, and by eleven he's in his own bed, staring at the ceiling and trying very hard not to masturbate to the memories of Sherlock in the moonlight, sweaty and lithe and impaled on his well-exercised cock moaning like it's the best thing he has ever felt, has ever had in himself.

John could as well practise deep diving for all the success he has.

The orgasm, when it finally happens, is as miserable and anti-climatic as his frame of mind has been since that moment of understanding on Sherlock's bedroom floor. He looks down at himself and lacks even the interest to go and clean the mess out of his stomach. It will keep until morning. He almost falls asleep, only to jerk back awake to the sounds of Sherlock retching downstairs. He lies quietly and listens. Sherlock is that disgusted, and what's John doing? Getting off by the memory of his disgrace. Such a good friend he is.

On the next days he lives on a constant petrifying fear Sherlock will really look at him and instantly see what he has been doing, what he can't stop doing. That would surely be the last straw. He tries to come up with something to say, some way to ease their bleak silences, but grasps at nothing. The words are still difficult, so difficult for him. Touching was easier, but Sherlock won't permit it anymore. John is left unarmed, unsure, unhappy. The days slowly crawl by. The flat and everybody inside hold their breath.

By the fourth day, Sherlock has solved five cases and is out for the sixth, and John, when he arrives back home from work, takes one look at the empty living room with its scattered science journals and petri dishes and rings Mike Stamford.

It's about time they went out for pints.

By 2 a.m. he's tipsy, and the flat is still dark. He collapses to the sofa rather than risks the extra round of stairs to his own bedroom and falls asleep without touching his cock once.

God bless Mike.

The peace doesn't last long.

He wakes up biting the Sherlock-scented pillow and sporting a huge hard-on. He has never felt so ridiculous in his life before. Luckily, the source of all of his worries is still out.

He retires upstairs, burrows under his sheets and goes back to sleep.

And now it's been thirty-seven hours since he last saw Sherlock. The flat is very empty, and very, very silent. Sherlock has even cleaned his bedroom, and John can finally let his guard down without a fear of finding himself humping Sherlock's chair or the pillows on the sofa. But where has the impossible man disappeared now? He's been gone much longer times before, but none of them hurt like this one. John sits in Sherlock's chair, surrounded by Sherlock's scent, and tries not to worry. Sherlock has been on edge. He probably needs space, needs to sort things out. John can understand this. But couldn't the brat at least answer his texts, signal that he's still alive?

And why on earth has he left his precious coat behind?

Sherlock _never_ goes outside without that coat.

John has called Lestrade twice today. Sherlock was at a crime scene yesterday. Since then the detective has texted the DI three times: once identifying the killer, once to demand more cases and once to tip him off about a prolific dealer in Green Park with an unusually wide arsenal of drugs at his disposal. That last text came this morning, only nine hours ago, and it scares John witless. But Sherlock still has a phone. He receives John's messages.

Normally, John can stand being ignored.

Nine hours ago, Sherlock was all right. It doesn't make John's anxiety at all easier. A lot can happen in nine hours, especially if you are Sherlock bloody Holmes and anywhere near Green Park.

Normally, John hasn't spent a week in a mating frenzy with his aloof flatmate and then days afterwards obsessing over that.

He's tapping the floor with the soles of his shoes. He makes himself stop, only to find out that his home is too quiet now. The tapping continues.

Normally, John hasn't been forced to acknowledge his unrequited love towards said aloof, impossible flatmate.

Why doesn't the bastard answer his phone? John has tried calling, tried texting, got a little desperate and did a stint of grovelling, even threatening. Nothing has worked. He will wait until tomorrow, and then he'll call Mycroft.

Please, please, don't make him call Mycroft.

–

He knows that this is a Bit not Good, that John won't approve. In fact, he's pretty sure John will be furious. Essentially, he's banking on John getting furious, and judging by his texts, he's already well on his way. What this tells about his state of mind he decides not to speculate upon, but the very notion of a red-seeing, honestly, tooth-crackingly angry army doctor in a full-blown alpha-mode sends delightful shivers all the way down to his shins.

Sherlock simply won't rest until John is mad at him. It's what the whole experiment hinges on, after all.

Luckily, he knows just the way to accomplish that.

–

The innocent sound of a text arriving has John on his feet in a second. It better be - -

It is Sherlock.

_Rosedene Ave, Merton. Bring your gun and the Belstaff. SH._

A minute later John is standing outside, looking for a cab, armed with a gun, an address and a lapful of a heavy coat. His body thinks it's going into a battle. Or maybe to the dry-cleaners. Maybe both. One can't ever know with Sherlock Holmes. He doesn't know whether he should be terrified or relieved. Ah, lovely normalcy.

–

Sherlock tries to stand still without touching his clothes. They are days old, dirty and positively reeking of his heat. He even rolled about in the sheets before putting the clothes on, but he's starting to think that might have been an overkill. The _pigeons_ are giving him looks.

Getting here was quite the hassle, but if there's a man who can move in London avoiding all the passers-by, it's him. Not one person even sniffed him on the journey, though there were a couple of stray dogs a bit too interested.

The pack of four alpha thugs he's been tailing has taken a closed-down old parking hall near the railway as their base. Sherlock chose these morons with great care. It's not unusual to find alphas in criminal circles – their inborn aggression and dominance serves those aspirations well – but these aren't leaders or masterminds. They are just stupid brutes who like to steal cars and assault pensioners. More importantly, one of them has a lame leg and another one is coming down with a fever. Perfect.

He wouldn't want John to get hurt.

He keeps on fidgeting and stilling himself, over and over again. It's not that he's nervous, but that he's eager to start, to move forward. If this works, they can go back to normal, John can forgive him. All that's needed is a little adrenaline, noradrenaline, and, of course, dopamine.

John needs his fix, and Sherlock stands ready to provide.

_“The Symmetry is often seen as a thing a beauty, but do always remember that the basis of working Symmetry is in successful bonding and in strictly worded terms of co-operation. Do not let your heart decide your offspring's fate. Consider every aspect of the potential mate with care and rigour. Too many promising alphas have gone to waste by bonding an unfitting omega. In this, as in all endeavours, vigilance and rational thinking are the keys to success.”  
\- Augusta Amelia Holmes, 1903_

–

The next text comes when the cab turns to Rosedene Avenue. John scoops up the coat and exits to the street, digging the phone from his pocket.

_Have to go in now. Number 5, second storey. SH._

John swears and starts to run. Somewhere in front of him, people are shouting. He thinks he recognises Sherlock's voice. It cuts down sharply.

He runs faster.

–

 _Oh_ fuck, Sherlock has time to think, _why do I always get something wrong?_

For a split second, Mycroft's smug face leers down at him. _Don't be alarmed. It's to do with sex._

And it's true that sex doesn't alarm him. He doesn't tend to remember much of the details, and what he does remember is hazy at best. It has always annoyed him somewhat – so much data lost – but now, for the first time, he understands that it's more than that. That deducing the signs on his body afterwards might not be enough. That not actually remembering might just prove fatal this time.

Because Sherlock had been ready to fight off four men, one with a lame leg and another one with a mild fever. He had had a plan. It had been a pretty solid plan.

The plan is abandoned about two seconds into the fight, because these are not men at all.

Instead he's crowded by four amorous bears, all hell bent with mating with him, and possibly offing each other in the process. There's no rhyme or reason to this surge, just mad alpha rut and an overbearing hormonal need to crush him. There's nothing to predict, no way to turn the fight around. They are the tide and he's the lonely sandcastle on an unwalled beach.

 _John wasn't like this,_ he thinks, trying to free himself from gripping hands and biting teeth. Nails dig into his shirt and the strong fabric tears like paper. He's pushed forward, towards the reaching arms and the empty stares. He tries to deflect, stagger to the side, but somebody crashes into his back and he falls down. There are arms pinning him down and he struggles, but then the thug is gone and Sherlock rolls around, only to find another alpha charging at him, his face bloody, his teeth bared. There's no time to dodge this one, and the alpha lands on him, knocks the air out of his lungs and goes straight for his belt.

 _But even Mycroft wasn't like this._ Sherlock groans, panting, his vision going momentarily black. Another pair of hands is around his throat, and then there are teeth, getting closer, and he tries to writhe, to resist, he really does, but there's blood in his mouth and tight fingers around his windpipe and teeth biting into his shoulder, and he knows it's stupid, but he uses the last of his oxygen to scream.

“Oh shut up.”

It's the growl of a lion, fierce and ferocious. Sherlock sees a flash of gold, he sees untamed deserts and unforgiving sand storms. He sees rows of soldiers and camouflage clothes. He sees the first of the wild alphas going limp over him. He sees John, cold with rage. Finally, the fingers around his throat let go and then he sees nothing at all. Breathing hurts in a way it's not supposed to.

Somewhere far away, someone is whimpering. There's a brief crack of a sound, and the whimpering stops.

 _It's possible_ , he thinks, _that I'm going to throw up._

There are warm hands on his shoulders, turning him to his side, a rush of medical terms flooding his mind and the inevitable coughing fit which brings tears to his eyes. The concrete is cold, he distantly registers at least four places where he's bleeding, and John is livid.

_Isn't this what you wanted?_

_But not like this, not like this._

“Any cracked ribs?”

He manages a piteous moan.

“Right. Did you hit your head?”'

John doesn't wait for an answer, but grabs his chin and turns his head to peer at his pupils. Sherlock freezes. The expression on his friend's face is something he can't remember ever seeing there before. Rage, yes, exasperation, both of those are present. They look like old friends on John Watson. But what's that softness around the mouth, why those creases around the eyes?

Worry?

As usual, John has his eyes fixed on him and sees nothing at all. Sherlock is hiding behind a pair of pupils.

 _Stop looking at my eyes and look at me_ , he wants to demand. What comes out is a low croak. _Brilliant, Sherlock. Way to cock things up._

“I'd love to hit you just now,” John tells him conversationally, “but it seems I'm a bit late for the party.”

He steals a peek around. The alphas are scattered around the floor like rag dolls. The sickening smell of their pheromones is overwritten with John's own scent. John, who doesn't seem to have a scratch on him. John, who somehow isn't in the process of raping him through the parking lot's dirty floor. John, who is, despite his angry words, still looking at him with that tender expression. Sherlock feels himself, shamefully, getting wet.

“Care to explain this little stunt?”

“I'm barren,” he whispers, then listens to himself, surprised. Where did that come from?

Apparently it wasn't the answer John was waiting for, either.

“What?” Another check of his pupils, a finger on his pulse. Impossible to hide now. Impossible to lie.

“I can't change. Not even for you. I'm sorry.”

“Sherlock? What are you about?”

A palm on his cheek. He turns his head, nuzzles into it.

“A gift. For you,” he gasps, and gives up all pretense. Drowning into John is easy, right. He pushes his cheek against the asphalt, bares his throat. “An offering,” he whispers, as the time stands still and his lungs relearn breathing. John's claim burns against his skin. He needs to feel it bleed again.

He can't look, can't witness his own shame, his omega weakness. If he's rejected now, it will be the end of him.

John wouldn't do that.

John has no reason not to do that.

Sherlock just pissed him off.

John _likes_ being pissed off.

How stupid he must look, choked and battered on the floor, his clothes half ripped off, his neck on blatant offer. Pathetic.

How John must laugh.

“The omega imperative is to produce offspring,” he recites, shakily. It's important he understands this.

“I'm barren,” he stresses. John must have all the facts. Sherlock is good at providing facts, if not at anything else.

“You are bonded,” John whispers, finally. He hasn't removed his hand yet. Good. Sherlock can keep on talking.

“I'm _sorry_ ,” he gasps, “I didn't mean to. I couldn't help it. He never wanted me. It was wrong. Mummy was so angry.”

Is he blabbering? He supposes he's blabbering. How to stop?

John saves him once again with an undignified squeak of “Oh, Sherlock,” and a deep kiss which leaves him panting for air. A calloused finger rubs his cheek, spreading the wetness there. So, he's crying as well. How utterly expectable.

He's such a wreck.

The air isn't coming back.

“And now you want - - me?” There's such disbelief in John's voice. Sherlock would like to say something clever, but he's too busy breathing to come up with anything. He feels flat.

He forces his eyes open, his back off the floor. John's arm goes around his shoulders, helping him sit up. His own tendons are shaking with the effort. Maybe John had a point about the injuries, after all.

“Broken. Rib.” He wheezes, and the dark blurs on the edge of his vision are getting rather insistent now. Briefly, he remembers another time, another floor, when oxygen hurt as much as it does now. John helped him then, as well.

“Yes. Please?” Darkness floods the thought.

–

He does have a fractured rib. Just the one. How _plebeian_. This might be a new low.

He spends a week sulking on the sofa, and the Belstaff does end up needing dry-cleaning after John used it as an impromptu Sherlock-wrap to get him away from Rosedene Avenue unmolested. The whole thing is more than a little embarrassing. Sherlock is ready to blame the pain and his bruised head, but John won't co-operate. He's constantly surrounded by tea and biscuits, and John even moves the microscope to the living room. It makes scowling at him a bit more difficult, but Sherlock's nothing if not persistent.

John doesn't take the bait, though. No matter how Sherlock tries to prod at him, he refuses to get angry, to raise his voice. He makes sure Sherlock is fed, medicated, his wounds are cleaned. Even Mrs Hudson doesn't fuss so. Mycroft visits, and there's a quarter of an hour of icy silence and pointedly raised eyebrows before the obligatory tea. Sherlock makes sure John treats the scratches on his neck and throat during the Holmes Family Hour and that Mycroft gets a good look. The vein throbbing on his brother's forehead proves particularly satisfying.

Mycroft leaves while John is washing dishes in the kitchen. Sherlock waits for snide comments or opaque threats, but instead he's treated to a thin, grim smile and a hesitant palm on his shoulder.

“Don't mess this up, Sherlock,” Mycroft says and makes his escape.

He's too stunned to even shout obscenities down the stairs.

–

John corners him in the kitchen by the end of the week. He has just taken his drugs and feels pleasantly detached. Who would have known John was that cunning?

“About what you said earlier.”

“What about it?”

John adopts his battle stance. Feet at shoulder-width, hands clasped behind his back, chin thrust forward. He's captivating.

Maybe he should lower the dosage.

“I think it's time to talk.”

“Talk about what?”

“Us, Sherlock. About what happened, and what happened after that. You don't have to look so tense.”

“I'm not tense,” says Sherlock and backs up against the counter.

John's clearly not buying that.

“I don't need anybody,” he tries.

“Stop fiddling with it, it'll just open again.”

He snatches his fingers away from the scar. It's definitely time to lower the dosage. John takes a step towards him. His hands fly to the counter, grip the edge. John's still sliding closer.

“'Course you don't need anybody,” he whispers, and if Sherlock's fingers weren't presently glued to the counter top he could easily touch him.

There. Right in front of him. Raising his head now, looking him straight in the eye. Captain John Watson.

Somebody in this room is making unearthly sounds, and John's mouth is closed. Closed, and getting nearer.

“I'm a consulting detective,” he begs, desperately, just as John's lips touch his. They open for him, immediately, and he's being kissed, so softly, so tenderly. The world is whirling, round and round the kitchen table.

“I'm not anybody's possession,” he pleads as steady doctoral fingers glide over his shirt, opening buttons as they go, raising his skin to a goose flesh with the slightest of touches, lowering, lowering. On his belt buckle, now. Stopping there. Oh Lord.

“I don't understand,” he confesses as the belt hits the floor and his zip is opened. And here goes John, down to his knees, as if he finds nothing more natural. Sherlock stares at the desert-blonde hair. His brain falls silent. His fingers have a death grip of the counter.

“You are Sherlock Holmes,” John agrees and tugs his trousers down with one swift movement.

“You are singular,” he breathes as Sherlock is being freed from his pants. No lies, here. No lies when John is like this.

“You are the best, the most deserving person I know,” he marvels and then his hands are around Sherlock's hips and his mouth is on Sherlock's cock and the world is reduced into wetness and warmth, suction and movement and - -

_“John.”_

“I couldn't bear the thought,” he starts, “I couldn't bear the thought of losing you. I couldn't ask you, you'd hate me, you never wanted that, but then you came, _oh God John do that again,_ and you _stayed_ , how did you stay, why did you stay, _oh Lord don't stop don't ever stop just like that,_ and I didn't know what to do, how to be, what to think, do you know what that's like, me not knowing, _oh sweet fuck John,_ and I thought I'd fix it, make it better for you, you were sad, don't you think I didn't notice that, you were so sad I never wanted to make you sad I'm sorry I truly am oh please forgive me it was a mistake it was all a mistake I'll never do it again I promise you don't have to _oh please John please fuck me._ ”

“No,” says John.

_“No?”_

“Not now and not in the kitchen. Fractured rib, remember?” And he goes back, goes for the kill, and Sherlock has never been taken like this, for himself, because of himself, without a heat, without the demand for his own body. It's almost like - -

“Love,” he inhales, and John hums happily and tightens his grip, urges Sherlock to move into the impossible heat of his mouth, makes himself soft and wet and welcoming for his cock, like it matters, like he was something more, something better than an omega. The alpha and the omega. The first and the last. No. John and him.

 _“John!”_ And he's panicked now, because he's nearing that point where the choice is taken away from him, where his body takes over and charges for the completion, and he's not ready, not ready for this to end. John might come to his senses, understand what a terrible investment Sherlock is, and if this is the last he'll have of John, he'll make sure it will last. That he will last. That the memory will last. Whatever. He'll make sure.

He lets go of the counter and tugs at John's shoulders, urging him to get up, but John just opens his eyes, keeps on sucking, keeps on moving, and fixes his eyes on Sherlock's face, on the fear there. And now he's blowing him and staring at him at the same time, and Sherlock was mistaken, what went on before wasn't intense, this is intense, and he's helpless on the face of it, on the face of John, on his knees for him. John's mouth, hot and demanding. John's eyes, understanding. John, this is John. Not some nameless alpha, not his brother, but John. Willing, perfect John.

His hands go to John's hair, and he allows that, let's out an encouraging sound.

Sherlock would cry if he wasn't in the brink of coming.

And then he's there, rushing towards completion, and John doesn't withdraw, he doesn't have time for that, _he doesn't want to do that_ , and Sherlock's fingers are steel in his hair, and his cock is a burning rod of nerves tearing into his mouth, and John takes it all, doesn't fight him at all, and the white surge of orgasm shuts down everything except that feeling of acceptance.

Pleasure and pain.

John's tongue, carefully caressing him. Oxygen in his lungs, burning with each inward breath. And just when he can't take it anymore, John lets go, raises up, supports him against the counter.

“You don't have to give me gifts.”

Soft voice, murmuring near his ear. Warm exhalation of air against his cheek.

“You don't have to change yourself.”

Lips on his neck, a kiss to that scar.

“You are Sherlock Holmes, the only consulting detective in the world, and I love you for that. Not for what's between your legs, not for the heats. For you.”

Tears, tears filling his eyes. John secures them all. All function has ceased. He can only stand and take it. Chemical... defect. Something about a chemical defect. He can't remember.

“What you said, I didn't understand then. But I promise you, Sherlock, I will never leave you. Not unless you want me to. You don't have to be alone again, and it doesn't take anything away from your worth. It doesn't make you indebted to me. It doesn't chain you to me. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

No, he really doesn't. But he does understand the tone, the meaning behind the words. They are fine. It's all fine. And given time, he starts to hope he'll understand the words as well. Who could ever have guessed?

And for the first, but definitely not for the last time of his life, Sherlock Holmes initiates a kiss. It tastes like salt water and tea. It's as it should be. No angry family member materialises to judge him.

He smiles into John's mouth, and it's brilliant. A start of something extraordinary.

“Do you realise you're saying that out loud?” John mutters into the kiss, breathless with laughter and happiness.

They are all right. It's all fine.

 

_Caring is not an advantage.  
\- Mycroft Holmes, 2010_

_Piss off, Mycroft.  
\- Sherlock Holmes, 2014_


End file.
